


come morning light

by MichellesBoh (michellesbohh)



Series: don't you dare look out your window (darlin' everything's on fire) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Warm Bodies AU, Zombie AU, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellesbohh/pseuds/MichellesBoh
Summary: Either out of shock or fear or both, MJ allows him to take hold of her arm and tug her to her feet.He musters as much concentration as someone brain dead can manage as he whispers“Come…”Spideychelle Warm Bodies AU
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: don't you dare look out your window (darlin' everything's on fire) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018726
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	come morning light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spideysmjs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideysmjs/gifts).



> Titles from Safe and Sound- Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars
> 
> I can't believe I got this done. 
> 
> Happiest Birthday to Marie! I def did _not_ start on this the moment you mentioned it months ago...

_“Mystery is never more than a mirage that vanishes as we draw near to look at it.”_   
_**― Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex** _

“Guys, I think I heard something…” MJ turns her eyes to the doors warily.

This building has been abandoned for a while (they’ve been monitoring it) but it wouldn’t be the first time that their guests have surprised them.

Brad strolls past her, looking both ways out of the door before shouldering his gun to take hold of her hands.

“There’s nothing out there, MJ.” His hands rub up and down her arms in what she thinks is supposed to be comfort, but there’s a tight smile on his face and an empty look in his eyes. “We have a mission to finish.” He squeezes her one more time for good measure and she stays rooted there, unconvinced.

Cindy steps up and bumps her shoulder with a knowing look, and MJ rolls her eyes when she looks down to see her sack already filled with the medical supplies they so desperately need to help their little colony survive.

“That didn’t look entirely like smooth sea sailing over there. Everything okay with Brad?” Cindy’s her best friend and also like a basset hound when she feels like she’s getting a “vibe.” Michelle learned a long time ago that trying to keep things for her is pointless.

Ever since the virus ravaging the world finally made it to their city, Cindy’s been more like a sister than anything else. MJ’s own family having succumbed to the virus early on, Cindy’s parents had happily taken her in.

She still remembers that day like it was yesterday, wakes up every morning with the sounds of her little brother’s screams echoing in her ear.

When she’d run out of bed, opening every door looking for anyone to help her, the scene at the foot of her stairs had made her blood run cold. MJ remembers that she’d never truly known fear until that moment.

There at the bottom of the stairs she’d seen her parents happily munching away on her brother.

Smeared in blood and crouched to the ground her parents had groaned lightly as they’d pulled and torn at what she had belatedly realized in horror were her brother’s entrails. Still, stupidly she’d called out to them, taking one step down the stairs closer.

The woman (she could scarcely say she was still her mother) had looked up at her, eyes glazed and unfocused but still fixed on hers. For a moment MJ had thought “maybe it’s not too late…” but her hope was short lived as the man had stopped, sniffing aggressively at the air until he too fixed his attention to her.

She’d learned that day that a corpse will always go for the fresh stuff, even if they’ve found food.

The call of fresh blood, still pulsing through the veins of their prey. Still warm. They can’t resist and just because they were once her parents, hadn’t meant they were an exception.

Michelle had run as quickly as she could to her bedroom at the end of the hall and slammed and locked the door. Her parents had insisted that she and her brother had bags ready in case the day came that the virus reached their neighborhood- in case they needed to run.

She’d looked frantically around her room, feeling both a deep set sadness and an amusement that hadn’t felt appropriate given the circumstances when she thought of how her mother had always nagged her to keep it more tidy.

She’d spotted the bag underneath her decathlon jacket and had raced to it, throwing in an extra pair of shoes and the photo of her parents that she’d kept on the top of her dresser.

When she’d stood, she’d spun aimlessly, scanning the walls and the floors for anything else important she might need. The sound of splintering wood had shocked her back to the moment instantly.

MJ had slipped her feet into her favorite converse and managed to grab a jacket just as the man had gotten the door open.

 _“Dad?”_ The blank look in her not-father’s eyes had haunted her for weeks after the fact, but she hadn't had the time to dwell on it. She’d fumbled the front zipper of the bag and quickly produced a small handgun. She’d remembered the day her father taught her to shoot it, how he’d told her she had to look out for herself (and her brother) no matter what.

No matter what.

He’d taken another step and she couldn’t say (even now) why she’d hesitated when the way forward to safety had been so clear.

 _“Dad, please…”_ She’d tried again despite herself, quickly swiping her sleeve across her eyes.

She would not cry.

Not as she’d removed the safety and not as she’d readied her finger on the trigger.

Everything. Every day of her life was life or death and she’d had to remember her parents’ lives had already been lost. She’d had to scream it over and over as she’d pulled the trigger, shooting and shooting.

She’d shot until the bullets ran out...until the room had stilled.

It’d taken her a moment to realize the only noise left was the sound of her own scream. A piercing, broken sound made of only the cruelest things life has to offer. Things like anguish, loss, helplessness...

Nothing prepares a child to lose a parent, but that? That had been more than any one person should ever have to bear.

“Guys I really-”

The door bursts open before she can finish and she dives to the right, crouching behind an abandoned lab station as she watches Brad swing his shotgun around and start shooting.

The bullets are flying, but corpses are not so easily subdued. It easily takes 5+ bullets to even significantly slow them down and Michelle watches in horror as a whole pack of them trickle into the room, beginning to feed on the other volunteers.

_Head shots do the most damage. If you’re short on bullets, aim for their heads._

Her father’s words echo in her mind as she rolls out from her hiding place, firing shot after shot and doing her best to keep the rest of her team alive.

There’s a moment during the fray, where she feels eyes on her and she pauses and that’s when she sees him. He looks to have been about her age when he died and he’s dressed in a tattered hoodie with a t-shirt that reads _“You are a-mino acid”_ with a frowny face.

She’d laugh if not for, you know, the sense of imminent death coursing through her as she watches her friends get ripped apart.

When he stands up, she slides herself back to the relative safety of her corner and hopes against hope that they will all get their fill of her teammates and that she might survive this.

She feels terrible thinking it and imagines it’s just her luck when she sees him rounding the corner.

* * *

Peter’s favorite part about hunting is getting to see the look of surprise on the faces of the people who will shortly become their dinner.

May had always told him not to play with his food, but Peter’s a corpse of few pleasures at this point so he’ll take what he can get.

Overall, he hates raids and he hates having to hurt people to survive. Before, when he was alive, Peter thinks he wouldn’t have been the kind of person to hurt others.

At least that’s what he tells himself to feel better as he scopes out the area to see what his options are. There’s so many gunshots whizzing through the air, the grunts and the screams are mind numbing, but then he sees her.

Peter doesn’t remember being alive, doesn’t know what that feels like, but he _feels_ this girl. Her hair is long and curly in a way that makes his fingers twitch. Like he needs to reach out and tangle in it.

He thinks she wouldn’t let him (because of the rotting flesh and all), but Peter still reasons it’d probably be nice either way.

For a second she stares at him and he wonders if he’s somehow remembered how to speak suddenly, but then she’s gone and he stands- takes one step towards where she’s hidden before the bullet hits him square in the shoulder.

There’s a man up on the counter (Peter’s seen him giving orders when they first came in) and he’s focusing all his fire in Peter’s direction and well, sometimes your dinner chooses you.

He’s got his hands around his ankles in a flash, dragging him down to the floor for easier access.

Peter gets a good hold on the flailing arms (whoa, nice watch man), before he takes a bite, pulling at the flesh of his forearm as he shuts his eyes and relishes the taste of a fresh meal.

When he gets the guy on his stomach, Peter works his hand into his hair and pulls until his back arches up and Peter can slam his head down forcefully. He waits until he hears the tell tale sound of cracking bone before he stops.

And, _okay._

Peter knows this looks a little sketchy, but in his defense, appearances can be deceiving.

Not in this case (he’s knuckle deep in some kid’s skull pulling out his brain matter. He knows _this_ doesn’t look good), but it’s best to keep an objective outlook about these things.

And again, he feels conflicted about his bloodlust but a guy’s gotta eat. The brain holds all of the memories of the person who’s died and by eating them, Peter gets to see what they see, to feel human again, to feel laughter and joy and lust and passion and happiness.

All the good things that death robs from people to suspend them in this ongoing gray existence.

And yeah, if he’d left it this guy would become one of them but Peter has a feeling he wouldn’t have liked him very much. That and the brain really is the best part.

Peter smiles as a warmth like sunlight illuminates his mind and the feeling of contentment and love warms his heart. He’s in a car now and she’s there. Her hair is wet from the rain pelting down on the window around them and the droplets falling from the ends have made her shirt go a little see through.

_“I think...I think I could love you, Brad.”_

_“Wow, MJ…”_

He watches as hands that aren’t his reach for her without saying anything significant back, watches as she gets closer and closer until everything goes dark and he can hear the sound of her breathing.

The pressure of her lips, even in memory, makes him feel the most alive he thinks he’s felt in years and when she breaks away she stays close. Peter can count her eyelashes- can easily see the flecks of gold mixed into the brown of her eyes and he forces his own eyes open as he swallows and the memory fades.

There’s less commotion around him as each of his fellow corpses get their fill of blood and flesh now that all of the volunteers have been overtaken. At least he would believe that if he couldn’t hear the pulse of a racing heartbeat, the quiet rush blood pumping life into each and every vein.

_MJ?_

It’s coming from the corner he’d seen her slip into earlier and he hadn’t ever considered that she would still be alive. As soon as the idea presents itself however, it latches on and takes hold of his mind like a parasite.

(A meta _phorical_ parasite. He has real ones already, obviously.)

He wonders if she reads, if she would like any of his books, what kind of music she likes, whether she’d like his collection of tiny spoons.

He wonders and wonders and wonders and that’s when he decides... _I have to get her out of here._

He knows the others won’t pick up on the sound of her heart (he had enhanced senses even before he died), but he hears it and he grabs another handful of brains (Priorities) and shoves it into his pocket before he slowly makes his way over.

Carefully and slowly (well, slower than the normal slow) he approaches and if it were possible, he knows he’d have a lump in his throat at the sight of her.

She’s shaking like a leaf and scoots back and back until she realizes she has nowhere to retreat. Her hair is matted with blood that he prays is not her own, wide petrified eyes, and fingers white knuckled around the shotgun he’d seen her firing earlier.

He sees the moment when she realizes there’s no one to call. No one to save her.

Peter does his best to imitate a smile as he closes the distance between them, but from her reaction he doesn’t think he’s been successful.

The knife she lobs directly into his chest as a last ditch effort to impede him kind of gives him that impression, but he’s never been good with girls so he can’t be sure. When he simply pulls it out and tosses it aside, she whimpers and he raises a finger to her lips to quiet her.

Hot tears run like rivers down her cheeks and she doesn’t dare move when he reaches down into the wound and drags his fingertips through the pus and decay seeping into his dirty t-shirt and then across her brow.

_Simba…_

Peter grunts as the word comes to him seemingly from nowhere at the sight of his gunk smeared there, but he doesn’t dwell. They have minutes until the others start looking to see where he’s gone.

He leans in, sniffing to make sure it’s safe and decides to add a little more to her clothes, brushing against the curve of her breast only because he forgot for a second that she’s alive and a girl and that’s like...rude or whatever.

Were May here, the smack to the back of his head would have been swift and deserved.

The look MJ gives him is equal parts indignant and terrified (and something else he can’t put a name to) and honestly? It’s impressive.

Either out of shock or fear or both, MJ allows him to take hold of her arm and tug her to her feet.

He musters as much concentration as someone brain dead can manage as he whispers _“Come…”_

* * *

Okay. Peter can clearly see that he has not thought this through. The entire walk back to the abandoned airport they call home, he could feel MJ trembling next to him.

_Peter this is a living girl. What are you DOING? Everyone would think you were insane...well if they could think they’d think you were insane._

As he glances over to check on her every so often, he can only be grateful she didn’t try to run. That wouldn’t have been good for them. Definitely not.

Alarm bells are blaring in his mind as they pass through the doorway and make their way through “security” which is really just a guy who stands there waving a metal detector wand all hours of the day.

_Must be nice to feel needed._

He leads her towards the plane where he keeps all his possessions and hopes there’s nothing too disgusting lying about. Peter has never had a girl over even before. He has no idea what he’s doing.

MJ startles when Peter nudges lightly at the small of her back to let her know she can sit down, and he watches, rapt as she curls into the window seat, cradling her knees to her chest and sniffling softly.

Peter shuffles over and settles down into the aisle seat across from her, running his hands through his hair in a pointlessly misguided attempt to tame it. It doesn’t help.

The silence, aside from her crying, is stifling. He imagines being abducted by an undead teenage corpse may put a damper on your mood on a Tuesday.

 _“K...,”_ he grunts and her eyes snap to him instantly and when he looks over at her, he can still see the fear so clearly etched on her face. “ _Keep...safe”_

MJ wrinkles her brow in confusion and so he brings his finger up to his mouth, pretending to take a bite and snapping his teeth, before shaking his head side to side.

_“Not...Eat.”_

She snorts in spite of herself- in spite of the situation, but seems mostly appeased by his assurance and he watches as she settles back into the corner, wrapping her arms around herself again and leaning her head against the window.

_Okay, genius. Now what?_

Peter may not know much, but he can definitely tell when a girl needs her space.

He’s gone to his favorite hangout, the front seat of an abandoned convertible and he’s brought along a little snack. There are a ton of ways to get to know a girl; eating her dead boyfriend’s brains is just the most direct way.

He takes another bite and leans his head back against the seat as the vision takes form inside his mind’s eye.

He’s standing outside a construction site. Can feel himself calling out to a man who looks to be a recently risen corpse.

_“Dad? Dad!”_

_“Brad, let’s go.”_ He feels her touch on his arm, her fingers gripping tightly at his wrist pulling him away.

The man rears back, growling as he charges towards what is for him, just another meal. He falls as he’s backing away, still unwilling to break into an outright run and the bullet soars from behind him into the corpse’s head.

A kill shot. Peter finds that he’s both amazed and absolutely petrified.

The corpse falls at his feet, but it’s too late. They’ve been noticed and as an angry pack of hungry corpses charge towards them, the memory fades out.

_No wonder she’s so afraid. We’re fucking terrifying._

* * *

When she hears the handle of the door jiggling, Michelle grabs the sharpest object she can find and waits. It’s a bizarre mix when the sense of relief muddles into her ever present (and growing) fear as she realizes it’s the same corpse from earlier.

_Seriously, MJ? Stockholm already?! Embarrassing._

She curses herself for wasting her first opportunity to explore her surroundings. She hadn’t moved when he’d left her alone earlier. Too stunned and in shock to process anything, she’d sat curled like that until she heard the sound of the door opening again.

Her gaze is fierce as she steadily wields the knife in his direction. When he moves to the overhead compartment across from her she finally speaks, “What are you doing?”

She’s the most confused she’s been this entire time when he pulls out a thin woolen blanket and shakes it out. He then drapes it delicately over her, knife and all.

Michelle stares at him before she flits her eyes away to look down at the blanket. When she looks back up, his eyes seem...earnest? Almost like he’s waiting to make sure she likes it- that she’s comfortable.

“Why?” The question’s been nagging at her beneath the rippling surface of her worries. An insistent tug that’s demanded her attention. “Why did you save me?”

Michelle sees him consider her for a moment before he raises a hand and she tightens her grip on the knife (she’d never let it go), but he stays where he is, just reaching.

_“D-Don’t...cry.”_

It’s a full day before he leaves her alone again and as soon as the door shuts behind him, Michelle is in motion.

She raises the shade of the window closest to her and observes as her captor (savior?), descends the stairs and melts into the fray of corpses ambling by.

_Fuck._

Her stomach bottoms out as she presses her forehead against the cool glass and the weight of her predicament settles into her bones like lead. She couldn’t run even if she wanted to.

There’s at least 15 other corpses milling around just underneath and across from the plane that it seems is meant to become her safe haven.

_Again. Fuck._

When he returns, she’s not brandishing a weapon, but she keeps her distance still. Refusing to look at him for too long and taking the canned food (are these peaches? wtf?) with little more than a mumbled “thanks.”

He doesn’t push her, taking to sitting further away from her than he had the first time and for that she’s grateful.

After a day or so, they fall into a sort of routine. She rises and sleeps in as normal a pattern as she can manage with all her waking hours being spent cooped up inside this plane.

It’s crazy how quickly they settle into this “new normal.” He brings her any cans that he can find, and she scolds him for walking in on her while she’s changing.

“I understand that you’re dead, but I get the impression this is still doing something for you.”

Sure, she’s got the blanket tugged up to her neck, but she’s shirtless and even with both hands holding it up, she’s certain he’s still getting an eyeful of her stomach and back.

Sometimes he tries to give her books to read and his eyes seem to shine whenever she finds one that she likes.

 _“Can you read?”_ she’d asked him on one of the nights she was feeling less afraid. It’d been raining and so she’d spent her whole day curled up in that blanket watching the droplets trail down her window.

Michelle has always loved the rain; the peace and stillness it brought to the world had always settled her and when she’d seen a tattered copy of The Second Sex hiding at the bottom of the pile she’d smiled for the first time since this all began.

 _“I’m surprised you have such good taste in books.”_ She’d held it up in front of her with a raised eyebrow and smirk.

Her corpse had grunted in a way she’d learned meant he wanted her to continue speaking and so she’d flipped it open to a random page and started reading aloud.

_“Two separate beings, in different circumstances, face to face in freedom and seeking justification of their existence through one another, will always live an adventure full of risk and promise."_

He’d seemed content to just sit and listen to her so she’d continued, feeling the words ring around her mind with more significance the longer she read.

When she’d met his gaze this time, it’d been...different. His eyes looked deeper, less gray than they had on her first night. Michelle had felt her breath catch at the sight of him.

And as absolutely batshit as the idea was, she’d found herself begrudgingly acknowledging that as far as dead guys go, he could look worse?

 _“All oppression creates a state of war,”_ she’d paused to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and she could feel his burning into her. _“And this is no exception.”_

She still didn’t even know his name, nor did she fully understand what he planned to do with her, but she felt...safe?

It’d been a ridiculous thought then (and still was) given the circumstances.

Corpses were dangerous. They murdered and fed and destroyed with no regard for life or for family or anything. It’s what she’d been taught for as long as she can remember, but somehow, being here with him? Seeing how he does his best to make her comfortable, how he’s made good on his promise to keep her safe?

Things don’t seem quite as black and white anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciatedddd
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr @michellesbohh


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